The Pleasures of Sin

by Jessica Trapp

  Damien must have sensed her outraged frustration because he gazed at her with sympathetic eyes. “I can ask Master Gabriel for some leniency that you could visit with your sisters under strict guard. I do not know what he will say, but I can ask.”

  Pressing her lips together, she nodded. “Gramercy, Damien.” He was a good youth, he truly was. And his mustache was growing on her. No doubt guarding her was as dull and tedious for him as it was for her.

  “To the chapel then?” he said.

  “Yea.”

  A few moments later, she knelt at a prayer bench in one of the alcoves with her head bowed. Damien stood outside the sanctuary doors, stationed as he always was.

  As always, she wished she could fix the position of the lands and the proportions of the torsos on the screen. It irked her that she had not been chosen to do the artwork to begin with. A man had gotten the position simply because he was a man, not because he was a better painter. If she would have been able to get her art supplies, she might have brazenly whitewashed them and repainted over the inferior work today. With both her father and husband gone, no one would be able to stop her. A statue of the Virgin Mary stared down at her and several painted screens—not her own work—gave some privacy.

  Brother Giffard slid up to her, his robe rustling as he walked. He was barefooted in the manner of the Benedict monks and great tufts of hair curled on the tops of his feet like fur.

  She gazed upward, not wanting to look at his large, misshapen feet and uneven toenails.

  He was a tall man with kind eyes, an easy demeanor and a loose-limbed gate. He threw his cowl back off his tonsured hair in a carefree gesture.

  His easy manner made him well loved and welcomed at many tables across England. But his mannerism seemed more suited to that of a court entertainer than a monk, and the bishops in several dioceses openly despised him. The town’s local Bishop Humphrey had taken him into custody on several occasions, but somehow Brother Giffard had always managed to get free.

  “Brenna, my child, I heard what happened and came as soon as possible.” He looked down pointedly at the chains and gave her a pitying look as he rested his hand on the tall back of the prayer bench. Candle glow flickered around them. “Why did you not follow through with the travel plans we had arranged?”

  She nearly groaned. Mother Isabella, the abbess of La Signora del Lago had been expecting her, indeed she had encouraged her to come by telling her how desperate the abbey needed artwork and promising all the canvas and paints an artist could ever desire. Brenna had met the aged nun years ago and they had exchanged friendly letters ever since.

  “I cannot get free of the chains. All the gold is lost?”

  “With regret—” Brother Giffard started.

  She waved a hand at him dismissively, nearly knocking over the nearby candlestick. “The past cannot be returned. But I need help.”

  A glint formed in his eyes. For one vowed to poverty, Giffard seemed to have a large propensity for smelling gold. “What can I do?”

  She shuffled on her knees and fingered her manacle. “I am turning lunatic being chained all the daylong while my new husband is scouring the countryside to chase down my father. I cannot speak with my sisters or send a message to Nathan. I have tried to speak with Egmont the smithy, but am guarded oppressively night and day.”

  Giffard’s robes rustled as he patted her shoulder. “Have you been painting? Oft the colors have soothed your troubled soul.”

  Despair touched her. “My husband locked my paints in a trunk!”

  “My child.”

  She leaned back, casting a wary glance at the massive church door. “Where is Father Peter?” she whispered.

  “Gone to the town to converse with Bishop Humphrey, for certes. Have you any paintings to show me?” He nearly licked his lips, the lecherous old toad.

  She gazed around. The two of them were alone in the sanctuary and if anyone burst into the church the alcove should provide some protection and give her time to re-hide the erotic miniature. But one could never be too careful. If they were ever caught selling the illegal artwork, both of them would be burned at the stake as devil worshipers.

  Satisfied they were alone and that Damien would stay outside the church, she undid the stays on her pouch and withdrew the small parchment.

  The monk’s robes swirled around his furry feet as he reached for the miniature. The paint was slightly smeared in one corner because she’d had to hide it quickly, but otherwise the self-portrait was in good shape.

  Lifting a brow, Brother Giffard gazed at it critically. “’Tis quite good,” he said, his gaze lingering on the open crook of leg the young noblewoman in the painting sported.

  “Do you think it will fetch a high price?” she snapped, impatient with his lingering. She was used to his perusal of her work and it annoyed, but no longer embarrassed her.

  He shrugged. “’Tis hard to say. Times are perilous with The Enforcer watching our every move. People are afraid to bid.”

  Her heart sank. One more reason to hate her hu band.

  “Perhaps if you would release the other two paintings of The King’s Mistresses…” he pressed.

  She shook her head. For the most part, church and crown would turn a blind eye to a few scattered erotic works, but she was not so foolish as to outright provoke the king.

  “Well.” Brother Giffard tucked the miniature into his robe and patted it. “Be of good cheer, child. Your artwork is exquisite. I will find a buyer for this but perhaps will have to go farther north out of harm’s way.”

  “Do you think that it will sell for enough gold to buy passage on a ship?”

  Giffard blinked a few times and shook his head. “Not this one alone, child.”

  “But you can arrange passage?”

  His lips thinned. “That will be nigh impossible. A ship’s captain will not want to risk hauling The Enforcer’s wife.”

  Wife. ’Twas a word akin to death. Tight bands seemed to press all the air from her chest.

  “Then mayhap a message to my brother Nathan?” She withdrew a sealed scroll that she had prepared days ago and held it out to him.

  He sucked in a breath and did not reach for the missive as he had the parchment. “’Tis dangerous.”

  “Prithee, Brother Giffard. I have no one.”

  “If they catch me I’ll be branded a traitor.”

  “If they do not and Nathan comes, I’ll see that you are well-rewarded and welcome all across Italy.” It was an empty promise and they both knew it. She shuffled on her knees, rocking the prayer bench. “Brother Giffard, you must help me.”

  He frowned down at her, his hairy misshapen toes tapping on the tiled floor of the church. At last, he took the scroll. “I will do my best but make no promises.”

  “Gramercy.” Some relief flowed through her. At least she had a chance now.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rain. Rain. And more blasted rain. Wet and exhausted James entered Windrose Castle over a month later, a foul mood wrapped around him even closer than his damp cloak. He had not caught the baron, damn the man, but he had too many responsibilities to keep traipsing the countryside looking for him.

  In the morn, he’d send Gabriel after the old man. Gabriel had an uncanny talent for tracking the untrackable, and it had been plain bad luck that he’d been unreachable when they had left.

  James heaved a long, weary breath as he and the few men with him made their miserable way across the bailey. As soon as he finished his mission of finding the painter of The King’s Mistresses and securing the keep with its nearby port, he would allow himself a long waterbound journey.

  He longed for sunlight and freedom, for the open swells of the sea. For the scent of the salt, and the sting of the spray across his cheeks. Here, he was so bemired in duty and responsibility it suffocated his very bones.

  Silence hung like a pall. No servants with torches came to greet them. No child splashed in the fresh puddles. No laughter wafted out the windows.
No smoke curled from the chimneys. The scents in the air were of rain and mildew, not fresh bread or hot stew.

  The lack of greeting seemed indicative of the state of his marriage. Bleak. Forlorn. Like that of a battlefield on the morning following a skirmish.

  His hellion wife’s face floated in his imagination and he cursed himself for being every kind of fool for marrying into this family. He should have outright denied the king’s wishes rather than be saddled with these betraying devils.

  His marriage had not even been consummated.

  Planting an heir should have been a duty he was anticipating, but he felt too drained at the moment to take heart for the battle.

  Right now he longed for a welcoming fire and a hot meal—as Godric no doubt had gotten when he returned to Meiriona and Whitestone. He could well imagine his sister-in-law rushing from the keep to greet his brother in the rain.

  He gazed about the bailey, telling himself he was not looking for his own wife. Mayhap, even if there was no warm greeting, at least the month away had given Brenna time to reconcile herself to the marriage. He did not have a patience or inclination to seduce her with pretty words tonight. The union must be formalized, a babe planted in her womb and his duty here completed so he could get back to the sea.

  Urging his mount forward, he looked up at the looming turrets of the keep, wanting to find his wife and get one more duty accomplished afore morning.

  The tips of the castle spiraled dark and ominous into the night, their tops hidden by the inky sky. Only a sliver of moon, mostly covered by black clouds, hung in the heavens. No stars shone in the bleak darkness, as if the relentless drizzle had washed them away.

  A blood-curdling scream echoed from inside the keep.

  Hurriedly dismounting and tossing the reins to a groomsman, James drew his sword and sprinted toward the sound. His blood pumped through his veins, chasing away his exhaustion. He wound into the bowels of the castle, once again shackled with the responsibility of setting the situation aright.

  Ahead, at the foot of a stairwell that led upward onto the wall walk, a clump of people gathered.

  Several men, including Gabriel who had been in charge, were there already. Servants hung about. Loud, excited gibberish echoed against the walls.

  James pushed his way forward, sliding between members of the crowd.

  A woman with short curly red hair lay on the stairs, her body at an awkward angle. Brenna!

  Gabriel bent over her, checking for signs of life.

  “Damnation,” James muttered. Had his wife thrown herself down the stairs when she saw his arrival? Had the month apart done naught to reconcile the wench to their union? He knelt, his blood pounding in his ears.

  A kick of guilt pricked him that he had left her chained but he quickly stifled it. The woman and her whole bloody family were a damn menace.

  “Brenna?”

  She lay unmoving, with one arm twisted back. She wore a wretched brown kirtle and had a large gash on her forehead. Dirt stained her face so he could not tell the extent of the damage. He swiped at the grime, but his hands were damp from the rain and it only smeared into mud.

  He placed his hand on her chest. She did not stir, but her chest rose and fell in a deep regular movement. He checked her arms and legs and determined they were not broken. With luck, she was only knocked out and not injured.

  Brushing one curly lock away from her face and further staining her face with filth, he tried to stir her. “Brenna? Wake up, girl.”

  No response.

  Her features were relaxed as if asleep and, despite the grime, she reminded him of something innocent and guileless, a far cry from the woman who had yanked a dagger from her bodice and stabbed him. He would do well to not be fooled by the sweetness of her face.

  “Where’s Damien? Why was my wife alone?” James snapped at Gabriel as he scooped her into his arms. His shoulder where she had stabbed him gave a little protest of pain, reminding him that this woman did not deserve any mercy.

  “She was here when I arrived,” Gabriel answered. “I know no more than you.”

  Her head lolled back, and she let out a small moan. Candlelight flickered over her face highlighting the scar on her cheek.

  James pushed through the crowd, carrying her to the bedchamber. “What happened?” he asked the servants.

  More loud confusing gibberish issued forth as several stepped forward, talking all at once, offering their own take on the situation.

  “Fell, she did,” someone answered.

  “I saw a man with her.”

  “Shouldn’t leave a woman chained like that.”

  “She was pushed, me lord,” a tall thin woman wearing a wrinkled peasant dress said.

  All thoughts of a restful evening disappeared. No matter the issues between them, she was his responsibility now. He had to take care of her and investigate the situation. He needed to get her cleaned up, access the damage and then determine if she was pushed, trying to escape or had simply fallen.

  Gabriel and the other men followed as he rushed down the labyrinth of hallways and up the tower steps to her chamber.

  Damien lay asleep before Brenna’s door. Not stopping on his way in, James kicked the boy in the side and hurried into the chamber to lay his wife across the bed.

  The boy groaned and blinked dazedly.

  James hurled orders at the men and servants to bring a tub and water. Reaching beneath his tunic he withdrew the key to the locks of her chains. He ignored the little prick of guilt that she had been bound for so long.

  He hurriedly unfastened the manacles while servants rushed to do his bidding.

  Lifting her arm, he inspected the skin around her wrists. It was red but not broken or bruised. He squeezed her fingertips watching the nails turn from pink to white and back to pink again.

  Not damaged.

  At least not by her bonds.

  He let the chains slide to the floor. They clanked against the planks and landed in a heap beside the bed. Frustration coursed through him. His well-ordered life had been turned upside down with one crisis after the next since the wedding.

  He gazed around the chamber, trying to determine what to do first to get the situation under control.

  The servants were rapidly filling a tub with steaming water. Damien was by the door, wobbling to a sitting position and holding his side where James’s boot had caught him.

  “Damien! Boy! Where were you? Why was my wife unattended?”

  Damien blinked sleepily.

  James stomped over to him, grabbed the youth by his overgrown mustache and hauled him onto his feet. “I said, where the hell have you been?”

  “I’ve been right here.” The boy began to shake as he glanced at the woman lying across the bed. “Oh, sweet mercy!”

  “You were supposed to be guarding her!”

  Damien’s eyes widened. “B–b–but I’ve been right here!”

  The urge to pluck the boy’s mustache out whisker by whisker coursed through James. He gave it a good yank before letting the youth go. “If you weren’t Meiriona’s brother—” he growled.

  “But I am!” Damien nodded his head vigorously.

  “You still deserve a good walloping.”

  True to his nature, the boy sank into a flamboyant bow.

  “My lord, I most humbly apologize for any wrong I have done. Mistress Brenna has been most kind to me and I would cut off my right arm to save her.”

  James glowered at him. “I don’t want you to cut off your arm—I want you to obey orders.”

  “But, my lord, I was here—the whole evening—lying in front of the door. And before that I went with your lady everywhere, just as you commanded. I did not abandon my post—would not abandon my post.” He thumped his fist passionately on his chest.

  A moan issued from the bed before James could give the boy the railing he deserved.

  They both turned and rushed to the bedside. Brenna was wide-awake, sitting up in bed, looking hearty and hale in
stead of weak, as he had expected. Her hair fluffed around her head, a misty red cloud like the horizon at dawn. The mud on her cheek made her look like some underworld princess, and she quivered with indignation. The bed curtains fluttered.

  Damien sank to his knees beside the mattress. “My lady, forgive me.”

  She pointed at James and shook her head forcefully. “This is not Damien’s fault!” Her voice was strong and loud, as if she had not just been lying helpless at the bottom of the stairs. “You were the fool who left me chained for weeks.”

  A streak of anger bit through James that he had even been concerned about her. That he had thought for one moment that she was innocent. That he’d felt guilty that she might have been injured.

  Likely she’d planned the whole ordeal.

  “I’ve been a fool alright,” he snarled, “but not for leaving a hellion such as you in bonds. Why were you not with your guard?”

  She jumped off the bed, nearly landing amidst the chains piled on the floor, and shook her fist at him. The mattress ropes creaked. Her brown kirtle fluttered around her ankles. “Mayhap I was tired of being followed around all the daylong as if being in bonds alone is not enough!”

  The room grew quiet as the servants stopped their duties and stared at their mistress. Her hair was a fright; the curly strands poked outward from her scalp like a disheveled, frizzy mop. Dirt smudged her cheek. Mud mingled with the paint splotches on her worn kirtle.

  But, oh, she looked magnificent in her outrage. Her eyes flashed as if she could burn them all with her spell. She stood beside the bed—her posture sharp and full of pride. He had seen men go to battle with less passion.

  She marched toward him and poked him squarely in the chest. “’Tis shameful for you to treat me such, unable even to bathe. I’m dirty. Disgusting!”

  A smile tugged at his lips. Leave it to a woman to be concerned about bathing when there were rebels running all over the countryside.

  “There you go,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the steaming bathing tub.